The Pineapple Storms still drizzled continuously this morning. This Californian weather phenomenon is like Manchester: an unrelenting mid-level shower that is neither offensively torrential, nor light enough to leave you in peace. You need a brolly but not a sou’wester. 
More plans were scrapped. The manicured golf-club lawns of Palms Springs had to be replaced by something equally scenic and relaxing… Tijuana, Mexico.
I had day-tripped there 15 years ago when Tijuana was still considered cool enough to blog about. I recollected sitting at the quaint Mexican plaza, relaxing with a Sol cerveza bottle in my hand and, a leisurely ramble in the local marketplace hawking turquoise gemstones and silver-plated Aztec costume jewellery.
Why not take the kids to see where Dora the Explorer lived?
We took a 90 minute train journey to the end of the line and presented ourselves at the Mexican border, passports in hand, open at the photo page. Not a security personnel in sight. Surely we needed to let somebody in authority know that not only we were leaving the country, but leaving the continent? Nope, not a soul.
Whizzing through the turnstile barrier, we expected to morph Superman-style into a different world, full of vibrant colours, trumpets-tooting, and sombreros perched shadily on moustachioed gringos wearing stripey ponchos.
Slab after slab of concrete wall welcomed our entrance into this exotic Old World. Immediately, we were assaulted by a barrage of taxi-drivers screaming for our fare. I guess people fall for the pandemonium and grab the nearest cab in state a frightened panic . (It’s a clever self-fulfilling exercise created by the taxi-drivers themselves. They cause the tension and conveniently offer the easy way out of it).
Unflinching, I swerved their squabbling and replied in my most fluent Spanish, “No, gracias.” That was worth four years at university, verdad? I could show my family a guided tour of a city that I had been to before, in a language I could fluently understand. And I had a point to prove.
Last time my husband heard me speak the lingo was eight years ago in Javea, Spain with my parents. I ordered a mushroom pizza from the waiter, half with garlic and half without. Minutes later, he arrived a with a plain pizza margarita, and I have never lived it down. Especially as Tony is one of those blokes that has to revisit and review any embarrassing moment at every opportunity. And that’s before I start mentioning my Dad’s version of events.
So, we popped into the local tourist information office around the corner and asked for his recommendation of a tasty authentic Mexican meal. He replied in perfect English “I recommend La Placita restaurant, Madam, and may I suggest you take a taxi as it’s a bit tricky to find.”
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| Please note, this is not Toy or my Dad. Thank you Google Images for this gem. |
So, we popped into the local tourist information office around the corner and asked for his recommendation of a tasty authentic Mexican meal. He replied in perfect English “I recommend La Placita restaurant, Madam, and may I suggest you take a taxi as it’s a bit tricky to find.”
Defeated, we headed back to the throng of taxi drivers, expecting to pay twice the price now they knew we were needy.
The restaurant menu offered the usual suspects, but I have to say these burritos were “Yum! Yum! Yum! Delicioso!”. Of course, we couldn’t make it through the meal without one of the kids knocking over a drink, but nothing dampened my spirit. At least it wasn’t an alcoholic one.
Charged full of energy, we refused the offer of a taxi and grabbed our map (He’s the map, he’s the map….) Apologies for my cheesy Dora references, but that’s the last one.
I took the family to the Plaza where I had sat a half a life-time ago and sunned myself in an afternoon of people-watching and mild drunkenness. Today, it peed with rain and the bars and restaurants were shuttered up.
Disappointed, I shunted my family into the open-air market and found a warren of empty streets in a soul-less district of town. My memories had recorded fond footage of a vivacious, slightly-commercial, Mexican pueblo, and I didn’t want to swap it for a new Mexico with an apathy you could only find in a multi-storey car park.
Determined to find a treasure, we hit the tourist shops. Holly bought a beaded bracelet and we found an Aztec rug.
Finally, a rush of post-purchase adrenalin. Now, we could go home, with a trusty souvenir in hand. It was stupid really, as it was a souvenir of a day wasted trying to re-create a perfect memory.
We walked past any empty Santa’s sleigh and slumped into the sodden seat, attempting a festive cheer.
As a last-ditch fling at finding some fun, (and I really had tried), I showed the children a tequila bottle with a worm in it. I tried to bully Tony into buying, and therefore drinking, a bottle of it. I figured either the tequila or the worm would have him crawling in the gutter in a fit of nausea, within minutes. Which, of course, would give the remaining Salters something to finally laugh at.
Unfortunately, he doesn’t cave in to peer pressure from a girl, and we settled for some Sambuca, my tipple of choice.
My executive decision was to head home to San Diego, after only two and a half hours of cold Mexican hospitality. We could arrive back at the camper by 4pm and enjoy a bit of Christmas fizz. Switch on the fairy lights and belt out our new Polar Express soundtrack CD.
We slopped back over the uninspiring concrete bridge to Immigration, casually laughing at the five lane bumper-to-bumper jam of cars waiting to get back into the USA. No lonely turnstiles on this, the wrong side of the Land of Opportunity. These guys would be lucky to cross the border by Christmas, and they knew it. They had all cut their engines and sat like Lakeside shoppers on the M25 a week before Christmas.
From our “viewpoint” on the bridge, we spotted a queue of pedestrians, snaking into the distance. Oh, they must be the poor Mexicans waiting patiently in line for their U.S. visas. Let’s go and find our nice short queue for English tourists. You guessed it. The casual laughing abruptly stopped and horror filled our faces like Edvard Munch’s The Scream.
We stood in line next to a pleasant older American man, who had nipped across the border for some cheap dentistry work. Yes, I would take his business card in case I ever needed a good dentist next time I passed by Mexico.
Political rioting was narrowly avoided, when Holly stood in the middle of the queue and asked really loudly why nobody wanted the Mexicans to get into the States.
Two hours later, as we conga-ed our way up and down the streets of Tijuana the conversation began to dry up.
We crumbled at the churros stand, and melted at the ice cream stall. We fell in love with the tamale man. The kids were pretty happy with the upturn in events and scanned the queue for the next delicious food cart.
Our lovely old chap suddenly livened up and gave us a final half hour of entertainment. He was, as older people can sometimes be, an absolute stickler for maintaining his place in the queue, unless he’s the one doing the pushing in. Muttering away, he promised vengeance on most, if not all, Hispanics for their dastardly bad manners. Approaching the final immigration desk, we spied a lovely, short non-US citizen queue on the right hand side. We waved him a cheery “Adios” and kissed goodbye to what could have been a beautiful friendship.
Pleased that our ordeal was nearly over, the Immigration Department hammered a final nail into the coffin of our miserable day out. Swiping the picnic I had saved for the train journey home, my fresh oranges and ham sandwiches were binned, in the name of Health and Safety pest control.
We had survived Central America.
A weary journey home and disappointed by the day trip that never really found its groove, we arrived back to the campervan for a late dinner and bed. I’m chalking today up to bad weather.
Tomorrow, we’ll head off to sunny Los Angeles.
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